


You Left Me Alone in the Dark

by secondstar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondstar/pseuds/secondstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remembering the past only brought pain, but Stiles didn't know how to stop it. All he could do was hope it would be worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Left Me Alone in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TW_FallHarvest](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=TW_FallHarvest).



“Order for Stiles!” The barista shouted from behind the counter. Stiles, who had been sitting at a table by a plug, got up to get his coffee. He beamed at the girl behind the counter as she slid him his pumpkin spiced latte. 

It was his third of the day, but he wasn’t counting. He had a paper to write. As he sat back down at his table, his phone buzzed from where it had been laying out next to his laptop. He thought about leaving it alone, he even let his fingers lay atop the keys on his keyboard as if he was going to go right back to typing. He rolled his eyes, not even pretending to care about procrastinating just a little bit longer. 

The text Stiles got made him smile. Not one of those everyday ‘corner of the mouth’ smirks, but a wide, unstoppable sort of smile that’s only cause could be from a certain someone. Stiles immediately thought of green eyes, of stubble, and of being pinned against a bed. He looked around him, covering his mouth so his apparent grin was less noticeable. Not that he cared what others thought of him, though. 

‘What time tonight?’ the text read. 

‘I should be done here soon,’ Stiles answered back. He gnawed at his bottom lip as he waited for a response. He didn’t have to wait long. 

‘Pick you up?’ 

‘I’ll call you, and yeah :),’ he sent back immediately. He set down his phone, then, knowing that he would be left alone until he called. 

His coffee was gone and the sun was going down by the time Stiles started packing his things. He was barely a foot out the door of the coffeeshop, his bookbag over his shoulder, when his phone rang; it was his dad. Stiles answered it, scratching underneath his chin as he looked both ways before crossing the street. 

“Yo daddy-o what’s the haps?” Stiles said with a grin, knowing his dad hated when he talked like that. 

“How’s that paper coming?” His dad asked. Stiles rolled his eyes. “And are you coming home this weekend?”

“Yeah, I am,” Stiles told him. “I should be home after my session with Wendy.”

“Good, I’ll make mashed potatoes and grill us-”

“Some tofu burgers,” Stiles interjected. “And I will make a salad, a Greek one.” 

“I am _not_ eating a tofu anything,” his father grumbled. “But I do like Greek salad.”

“You can even eat my olives,” Stiles joked. “See you then, Dad. Love you.” 

“Love you too, son.” 

Stiles was a freshman, and a young one at that. He had finished high school a year early, even after spending a few weeks in the hospital after a car crash. He didn’t remember much of it, but apparently it had been an accident. After he got better, he ended up doing the remainder of the year at home, then took summer school. He got into his top three colleges. 

After walking a few blocks in silence, Stiles scrolled through his contacts, finding just the right person. 

“Thought you’d never call.” 

“Yeah, well. I never said that it was the easiest paper to write,” Stiles said as he shoved one of his hands into the back pocket of his jeans as the other held onto his phone. 

“Well, not all of us pick the hardest topic right before midterms. Where are you? I’ll come pick you up.”

“I was just at Rosey’s,” Stiles told them. “So if you want to pick me up so I don’t have to walk all the way to French, that would be amazing.” Stiles had a room to himself, but he never seemed to be able to get any work done there. The library, too, didn’t work for him. He needed to be around people, to have things to look at, to hear conversations around him. It helped him zone in on his work, somehow, to be surrounded by noise and distractions. It wasn’t his fault that his favorite coffee shop was an almost thirty minute walk from his dorm room. 

“I’ll swing by and pick you up, are you walking down Wheelock?” 

“That I am! See you soon,” Stiles said before he hung up. He only had to walk a few minutes before a car slowed down beside him, its window rolling down to reveal Ben, his upperclassmen boyfriend. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Ben teased as Stiles made his way around the car, shoving his bag into the backseat first. As soon as he was seated in the passenger seat, Stiles leaned over and kissed Ben on the lips. He smiled against his mouth, fingers intertwining with Ben’s before he pulled away. 

“Someone had the pumpkin latte,” Ben laughed. Stiles stuck his tongue out as he buckled up. He and Ben had been dating since early September. They met at a bar, that Stiles had a fake ID in order to get into. Ben had bought Stiles a beer, and the rest was history. 

Ben lived off campus and in order for Stiles to get to and from it he had to be driven. He didn’t have a car, and in all actuality he didn’t even drive. Not since the accident. He preferred walking, but he knew that cars weren’t something that he could avoid. That didn’t mean he felt comfortable in them, though. 

Stiles rarely spent the night at Ben’s, especially when he had class early the next morning. That, and Stiles didn’t like sharing a bed. He liked cuddling, he loved the feeling of someone breathing next to him as he fell asleep, but what he didn’t like were the nightmares. Stiles had them every night, and he didn’t like waking up covered in sweat to see Ben’s worried expression looking back at him as he tried to breathe. 

So Stiles slept alone. He stayed at Ben’s for dinner, they ordered take out, and then they watched a movie. Ben had roommates, two of them, so they had to vacate the living room in order to be alone. Afterward, Ben drove him home and that was that. 

Once alone in his dorm, Stiles tended to procrastinate. He took a long shower, played a videogame, and basically avoided all forms of work. For some reason, pre-college him thought it would be a good idea to have early classes. He loaded up the mornings, making his afternoons lighter and somehow landed himself with no Friday classes, which was hard to do as a freshman. He was only taking the normal fifteen hour work load, but still. Dartmouth was an Ivy League school and those fifteen hours were no small feat. 

Fridays were Stiles’ day to sleep in. He had his therapy sessions with Wendy at eleven, then he just had to wait for his dad to pick him up to take him home. His dad was the Sheriff of Grafton County, which Dartmouth was in, but he lived outside of town, in Wentworth, NH. It was around fifty minutes away from Hanover, but for Stiles that was the perfect distance to not be able to go home every weekend, especially if his dad couldn’t come pick him up himself. 

Wendy, Stiles’ therapist in Hanover, was quiet. She mostly listened, which Stiles couldn’t fault her for. He went to see her because after his car accident, he lost his memory. It was weird, walking around, living his life without remembering a single thing in high school before the crash. He remembered middle school, though. He remembered his mother’s death, being alone in the hospital while he waited for his dad to arrive. He remembered living in California, but it was such a distant memory now, fuzzy around the edges. Stiles didn’t like thinking about California, California gave him headaches. 

His migraines got bad, sometimes. He had to put the blackout curtains up in order to shut out all light, to make sure there was no noise. Sometimes he even had to unplug his mini-fridge, to make sure the fan wasn’t on. So no, Stiles didn’t think about California. 

“How are you doing, Stiles?” Wendy asked him. Stiles looked up from where he had been sitting. He hadn’t realized he had zoned out, that he was picking absentmindedly at the couch cushion. 

“Fine,” Stiles said with a sigh. “I only woke up once last night,” Stiles told her truthfully as he licked his lips. 

“Can you remember what you dreamed?” She asked him calmly. Stiles shook his head. He never remembered. His brow furrowed as he attempted to grasp something, anything from the night before. Everything was on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach. He could sense it there, but there wasn’t anything he could do to get to it. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles admitted aloud. “I can’t.” 

“Don’t be sorry, Stiles. You haven’t had a migraine in almost three weeks. I think this is a good sign.” Stiles nodded his agreement. When they first got to New Hampshire, he was having them so frequently that he wondered how he even graduated high school. That was something he remembered, at least. That he and his father moved to the East Coast soon after he got out of the hospital in Beacon Hills. Stiles hadn’t even needed to pack his things, or at least he didn’t think he had to. Everything was sent out to Wentworth without them. All they did was head straight to the airport. 

Stiles couldn’t even tell anyone what his house in Beacon Hills looked like, let alone the address it had been. He remembered his mother, but not the house he grew up in. It was like he was blocked from it, somehow. He was denied access. 

“What are you thinking about?” Wendy asked him. It was weird, calling her by her first name, but that was what she had asked him to call her. 

“My mom,” Stiles whispered, his voice catching in his throat.

“Tell me about her,” Wendy prompted. 

“She liked to sing,” Stiles told her. “She and my dad danced, and she danced with me too,” Stiles added in as an afterthought. “You know, with me putting my feet over hers. She basically just walked me around the room in a circle, her hands holding mine to keep me in place.” Stiles closed his eyes. If he thought hard enough, he could picture her. He went quiet after that, though, getting lost in the memories that he could remember. 

“I had this friend, Scott,” Stiles said as he looked down at his hands. “We grew up together. Our mom’s were best friends, you know?” Stiles looked up then, to see Wendy’s reaction. She was writing, so it must mean something to her. Stiles continued. “We were really close, did everything together. I guess it is weird for me to be over here at Dartmouth? But...” Stiles trailed off, because he felt the signs of a headache coming as he thought about his best friend. He kneaded the side of his head with the palm of his hand, groaning. “I can’t.” 

“You did good, Stiles,” Wendy assured him. “You are going home this weekend, right? To see your dad. Tell me about that.” Stiles took a deep breath, closing his eyes so he could think about his weekend. It was late fall, only a week from Thanksgiving. 

“Well, I will get to go home this weekend, and then turn around and go back next Wednesday for the long weekend.”

“Are you excited about that?” Stiles shrugged.

“It’s just us. Not much reason to go all out, you know? Last year we didn’t even get a turkey. We just made wings and watched football. This year, I think he might have to work.” 

“Do you think of your house in Wentworth as home?” She asked. Stiles nodded without thinking. 

“It’s the only home I know,” he stated. “I know I had a home in Beacon Hills, but...” He shrugged again as he leaned an elbow against the armrest, his head resting against the palm of his hand. His head was throbbing. “I can’t anymore, Wendy.” 

“We can be done for today. I can see that you aren’t feeling well. This weekend, though, I am giving you homework.” 

“Really?” Stiles asked. Wendy smiled her warm smile at him as she nodded her head. 

“I want you to reach out to Scott, since you brought him up. See what he is up to.” 

“Okay,” Stiles said easily. “I don’t have his number, though.”

“I know you don’t have Facebook, but maybe your dad has his mother’s number? Since they were friends, his mom and yours.” 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Stiles said as he stood. 

“I will see you in two weeks, then,” Wendy said. “Since you are going home for Thanksgiving.” 

Stiles’ dad was waiting for him outside the therapist’s office when he was done. Stiles had his overnight bag with him, and put it in the trunk of the car before he got in the passenger’s seat. 

“How was the session?” He asked Stiles. Stiles pressed his face against the cold window, his eyes closing. “That bad?” 

“Headache,” Stiles mumbled, his face scrunched up unhappily. “But she said you could help with something.”

“Oh?” He asked as he started to drive. 

“Yeah, she wants me to try talking to Scott.”

“What?” His dad asked, stopping the car outright. Stiles opened his eyes to find his father staring at him dumbfounded. “Did you remember something?” Stiles’ brow furrowed, his head shaking.

“What? No. I just mentioned him, since we were friends in elementary school. She said maybe talking to him-”

“I don’t know, Stiles,” his dad said as he shook his head, grip tight on the steering wheel. 

“Do you have his number, or his mom’s…what’s her name?” Stiles scrunched up his face as he tried to remember. His dad didn’t answer him. “Dad?”

“Melissa,” he he said with a sigh. “Melissa McCall.”

“McCall,” Stiles murmured to himself. “Do you have Melissa’s number?”

“Yeah, I’ll give it to you when we get home.”

The drive was quiet after that. They lived in a small two-bedroom ranch style house with a long driveway, behind trees. It was secluded, which helped a lot with Stiles’ migraines back when he used to get them frequently. There was no noise from the road, no city life that needed to be blocked out. It was hard at school when Stiles got them, with the yelling in the dorm and the slamming of doors.

Now, though, it seemed so expansive, the wilderness surrounding them. Stiles didn’t drive, so it wasn’t like he could just leave. He’d spend the weekend alone, mostly in his room as his dad worked. He was a Sheriff of Grafton county, working long hours, sometimes on the swing shift.

Once home, Stiles brought his things into his room. When he walked back out, there was a fire lit in the fireplace. Stiles, with a book in his hand, sat by it and began reading. He could hear his dad in the kitchen, probably readying dinner. Stiles left him to it. _Faustus_ needed to be mostly read by class on Monday, and Stiles was just barely one hundred pages in. He’d probably spend most of his weekend on it, along with his other assignments.

Stiles could hear his father’s voice echoing off of the kitchen walls, but he couldn’t make out what was being said. He wasn’t talking to Stiles, was probably on the phone with someone. His father’s footsteps could be heard as he made his way from the kitchen into the living room. All of the floors in the house were wood, with a rug in the living room to accent. Stiles knew that their old house had been carpeted, the walls cream colored. Here was wooden and earthy, the walls warms and actual tones. Sometimes Stiles felt like his father wanted it different on purpose, but Stiles never brought it up.

Stiles looked up from where he was lying on the rug by the fire to see his dad holding out his phone for him to take.

“I have Scott on the phone for you,” he said, his voice clipped. Stiles’ brow furrowed, but he took it as he gave his dad a look.

“Hello?” Stiles asked as he sat up, his fingers raking through his hair at a loss for something to say. He hadn’t been prepared. What was he supposed to say?

“Hey, man. It’s good to hear your voice,” Scott said from over the receiver. Stiles bit his bottom lip as he smiled to himself. Scott’s voice sounded so familiar to him. It made him feel relaxed almost immediately, his shoulders slumping as he picked at the rug in front of him.

“You too, Scott. I know we haven’t talked in ages, I just was like….” Stiles looked at his dad who was watching him intently with his arms crossed. Stiles gave him a look, standing up. He didn’t want to be looked over while he talked to Scott. He didn’t like feeling coddled, so he went into his room. “I was thinking we could catch up.”

“Yeah, totally…” Scott said as he cleared his throat. “What do you want to know? I mean, you’re what? In college now?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said as he sat on his bed. He forgot that while he was in college, Scott hadn’t graduated a year early like he did. “I’m at Dartmouth, studying the Classics.”

“I knew you were too smart for your own good,” Scott joked, but then went silent. “Well, I’m still working at Deaton’s after school, things are… weird. You know.” Stiles nodded his head, even though he didn’t know. He didn’t know who Deaton was or why things were weird. Stiles’ hands shook as he covered his mouth with his hand.

“Who’s Deaton?” Stiles managed to ask. Scott was silent, except for a sigh.

“He’s the veterinarian in town, sorry man I totally-“

“It’s fine,” Stiles laughed off. “I didn’t know. So you work for a vet? Are you going to go to college for that?”

“Well, my grades aren’t too hot still. I’m working on them, but I’m working on getting into veterinary school.” 

“Awesome, I hope you get in. Do you know where you are applying?” 

“No, not really. Isaac… well. Uh, most of our friends are staying in the area.” Stiles didn’t know an Isaac. He felt a pang of sadness hit him right in the gut. Scott didn’t know what to say to him. They didn’t really know each other, not really. The memories Stiles had of Scott were all from middle school, only barely there. It was more of a feeling than anything, not so much real instances of friendship. Only a feeling. “Tell me about Dartmouth.” 

“Maybe another time,” Stiles mumbled. He wasn’t feeling up to more conversation. “I’m not feeling too hot.” Stiles could hear his father pacing outside his door, waiting for him to reemerge. Stiles got up, opening his door. The Sheriff stopped pacing back and forth, their eyes locking gazes. “I’m going to hand you back to my dad.”

“Alright,” Scott said, sounding disappointed. “Thanks for calling, man.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his voice shaking. “We’ll talk another time.” Stiles’ dad took the phone from him then. 

“Hi, Scott,” he said, walking down the hallway, towards the kitchen. Stiles shut the door to his bedroom, leaning his head against it as he closed his eyes. He didn’t know an Isaac, or a Deaton. He didn’t know anything. A chunk of his life was missing and he would most likely never get it back and it _hurt_ that he had friends, people that he no longer had any recollection of. 

Stiles napped, or tried to, until his father knocked lightly on the door to let him know that dinner was ready. Chicken, mashed potatoes, and salad, not Greek, were on the table. The chicken was marinated with herbs. Stiles ate the salad and the potatoes. He was finding it hard to eat meat, lately. It left his stomach upset, and he didn’t want to get sick while at home. 

“Dad, was I a vegetarian?” Stiles asked as he poked at his uneaten chicken. 

“No,” the Sheriff said, looking at Stiles’ uneaten food. “You take pepperoni on your pizza and like burgers.” The thought of a burger made Stiles feel sick. He wished he would just be better, that he could remember. “But maybe you just don’t like those things anymore.”

“I like cheese pizza,” Stiles told him. 

“Then you like cheese,” his dad tried to smile at him. Stiles gave him a small smile in return. “So, how is Ben?” That time, Stiles beamed. 

“He’s good. Busy with assignments, but I go over almost every night-”

“You spend the night?” The Sheriff asked. Stiles shook his head. Even though he was eighteen, finally, Stiles still felt like his dad was uncomfortable with Stiles being with someone older. Ben was 23, ready to graduate in May. 

“No, I don’t,” Stiles assured him. “Nightmares.” 

“How are those going?” He asked, worry seeping through his tone. Stiles shrugged as he stabbed at his salad, popping a baby tomato into his mouth. 

“I can’t remember them, just have residual feelings, you know? Like sometimes my fingers tingle,” Stiles said, wiggling his fingers as if he could still feel it. 

“Your fingers tingle?” He asked Stiles, concern shone bright across his face. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said honestly. “And the air in my room smells weird, earthy.” He shrugged, like it was nothing. To him, it didn’t mean anything, not really. 

“Anything else...weird?” Stiles shook his head as he stood up, grabbing his plate to put into the dishwasher. 

“Do you want this chicken?” Stiles asked. 

“Wrap it up, I will take it with me to work tomorrow for lunch.” 

Stiles ended up doing the dishes, then showered. Once he was out, his dad was asleep on his recliner with the TV on. Stiles turned it off, then covered his dad up with an afghan that was usually draped over the couch. As Stiles did it, he saw a flash of something. It only lasted a second. He smelled alcohol, though, sweet and bitter at the same time, the feel of the afghan beneath his fingers and his dad asleep on his recliner in the dark. Stiles took a step back, his heart racing. 

He practically ran into his room, shutting the door behind him. The dad he knew didn’t drink. There wasn’t even a drop of it in the house, there never had been. But Stiles distinctly recalled the smell of whiskey. Stiles slid down the door, his fingers tugging at his hair as he tried to think of the memory again. It didn’t come back, though. 

It was gone within a second. 

Eventually, Stiles got up and crawled into bed. He attempted to read _Faustus_ but couldn’t concentrate. He grabbed his phone, thinking about calling Ben, but he didn’t know what he would say. They didn’t talk about how Stiles had a chunk of his memory missing. It wasn’t that Ben didn’t care, it was more like Stiles didn’t want to discuss it. That was something between him and his dad and his therapist. Stiles sent Ben a text instead, telling him that he was going to bed. He put his phone on silent, then put it on the back of his bed, the headboard acting as both a bookshelf and a nightstand. 

Stiles opened his eyes to see that he wasn’t alone in his bed. It was a twin, so the fit was snug with another body in it with him. He wasn’t shocked to find himself not alone, though. It felt right, to have someone’s arm draped over his, their legs tangled. They were heavy, whoever they were, and completely ripped. Stiles could feel stubble scratching against his skin, harsh and biting and not at all like he was used to. His hand reached out, touching the warm skin before him. He breathed in, closing his eyes once more. They smelled good, like the woods, but not the woods in New Hampshire. These were dry, crisp, and there was something animalistic in the scent that Stiles couldn’t place. The body beside him shifted, stretched against Stiles and suddenly lips were on his, green eyes opening lazily as their fingers tangled. Stiles moaned against the kiss, his mouth opening readily as he was turned onto his back, his legs spread. It wasn’t until right then that he noticed he was naked, and so was his bedmate. Stiles’ back arched as his erection was rubbed against beneath the sheets. Wet slickness of precome smeared across Stiles’ stomach and he was unsure if it was his or not. 

He was afraid to talk, like everything would disappear if he did. Instead, he reached out, his fingers grazing across the stubbled jaw. His fingers were taken into their mouth, sucked on. Stiles squirmed beneath him, his hips rolling upwards, seeking friction. The man above him laughed as he leaned down, capturing Stiles’ lips with his’ once more. The last thing Stiles saw were their eyes flashing from green to a bright blue. 

Stiles woke up covered in sweat, his chest heaving, his cock heavy and leaking between his legs. He gritted his teeth as he wrapped his hand around his erection, jacking himself off. He let out a noise as his breath hitched in his voice as he pictured his eyes, blue. It wasn’t in the dream, but Stiles could hear a growl, somehow. He closed his eyes as he tried to recall the smell, the feel of his skin. Stiles’ stomach tightened, his toes flexing as he came in his own hand, making a mess of his stomach. He licked his dry, cracked lips, trying to re-wet his mouth. 

Sitting up and grabbing a few tissues from his headboard, Stiles cleaned himself up. Moonlight was filtering through his window, giving him enough light to clean up by. Stiles cleared his throat as he tossed the spent tissues into the wastebasket by his bed. He wondered, for a moment, when he had stripped down to nothing, having gone to bed in his pajamas. Stiles looked at the bed as he redressed himself. There was a chill to the air in the house, and he got cold easily. He grabbed a hoodie from his closet, one that was faded and red. He rarely wore it now, his shoulders almost too broad for it, his arms longer. It was comfortable though, and it reminded him of woods and the same smell from his dream. Stiles brought the sleeve up to his nose, sniffing it, wondering if he was just imagining it or not. 

Stiles walked out of his room to find the living room empty and the fire dead. His father must have gone to bed at some point. Stiles’ gaze fell on the afghan from earlier as he made his way into the kitchen. He eyed it as he drank a glass of water, then put it in the sink. Stiles ended up grabbing the blanket, bringing it back into his room with him. He pushed off his usual comforter, replacing it with the afghan. He sat on his bed, looking out the window. The moon was full. Stiles’ chest tightened at the sight, but he couldn’t figure out why that mattered. 

The next morning, the Sheriff woke Stiles up for a breakfast before his shift. They liked going to a diner some ten miles from their house because Stiles liked their almond pancakes and hazelnut syrup. Stiles kept on the red hoodie, shoving the fabric up to his elbows so it wasn’t apparent that it no longer fit him properly. His dad eyed it, though, as they drove back from the diner. 

“Where did you find that?” The Sheriff asked. Stiles shrugged, picking mindlessly at a frayed section of the hem. 

“In my closet. I was cold last night when I woke up at like, three.” 

“Did you have a nightmare?” Stiles shook his head, forcing his cheeks not to redden as he remembered his dream. 

“Not exactly,” Stiles told him, his throat dry. Stiles shifted in his seat, wanting to ask his father about the guy he pictured. He wondered if he had been real or not. “Did I know someone with green eyes?” Stiles asked him. 

“I’m sure you did, son,” the Sheriff said easily. “I don’t remember your friends’ eye colors.” Stiles decided not to push the subject. For all he knew, he could have made them up in his subconscious. Only, Stiles was pretty sure he read somewhere that the mind couldn’t make up faces in dreams, that it would take faces that he had really seen and use them, even if it was just a passerby. 

Stiles wondered if he had a sex dream about a passerby, or about someone that had actually meant something to him. 

The Sheriff dropped Stiles off at the entrance to their driveway, Stiles assuring him multiple times that he was fine to walk up to the house on his own. It was barely over a quarter of a mile, he would be fine. The fall leaves were falling or already fallen to the ground around him as he walked. Surrounded by trees and growth, Stiles shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked. His hoodie was thin, almost too thin for the crisp, cool fall air. He could almost make out his own breath as he walked but not quite. He thought again about his dream and wondered why, if it was a memory, it didn’t give him a migraine. Maybe it wasn’t a memory, like he originally thought. It could be nothing. How often had he probably had wet dreams growing up? It meant nothing. 

Only deep down, Stiles knew that wasn’t true. He knew that the blue eyes flashing meant something, that he wanted to be wrapped in the scent of whoever that was. They were real, and he was only kidding himself by pretending they weren’t. 

When Stiles got to the house, he made coffee, then set about to work on his assignments. He worked on a paper for a while, in silence. He didn’t like listening to music, it distracted him in a way that was different than the hustle and bustle of people around him. He couldn’t work as he listened to it, always ended up typing the lyrics to the songs instead of what he had intended to be in the paper. 

The house was eerily quiet, though. Stiles was half tempted to light a fire, just to add some background noise, but he refrained until he curled up on the couch to continue _Faustus_. He made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, then snacked on Cheez-Itz. Around two, his phone rang, making him jump in surprise. It was Ben. 

“Hey,” Stiles said as he used his cheek and shoulder to prop the phone against his ear. “What’s up?”

“Usually you send me a cascade of texts when you go home, I was beginning to think you never woke up this morning,” Ben joked. Stiles hadn’t even realized that he was acting differently. 

“Ah, shit. Yeah, I had a weird... night,” Stiles said, unsure if he should tell Ben about his dream or not. “Dad took me to breakfast, since then I’ve just been reading.”

“Such a partier,” Ben said warmly. “You want to Skype for a bit?” He asked, his tone not hiding his intention at all. Stiles wasn’t really in the mood for Skype sex, and in all actuality, his stomach clenched at the thought of it at the moment. 

“I’m not feeling good,” Stiles said as he put his phone down. “How about when I get back, I spend the night? Sunday night?” 

“I’d like that,” Ben said honestly. Stiles smiled as he buried himself further into the couch, pulling up the same afghan he had dragged into his room the night before. 

“Tell me about your night, what you did today,” Stiles said as he closed his eyes. He ended up napping, falling asleep to the sound of Ben’s voice. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, so when Stiles woke up with his phone pressed between his cheek and a couch pillow he wasn’t surprised. 

What surprised him was the fact that he remembered his dream. 

He had been drowning. The feel of water encompassing his body had been so real, the panic he felt as he gasped for air wasn’t something that he would soon forget. He wasn’t alone, though, he had been trying to hold onto someone, to keep them above the water as well. 

_’Stiles, don’t-,’_ echoed over and over in his head as he let go, letting the other body drop. 

Stiles sat up on the couch, half expecting to be drenched with water. Instead, he was wrapped snuggly in a blanket. He kicked at it until he was able to get up. Walking into the kitchen, he grabbed a glass of water. Stiles couldn’t recall ever remembering so many dreams, or memories. This dream was harder to believe to be real, drowning in a pool? That didn’t seem likely to him. 

Stiles made himself a salad for dinner, then sat in front of the TV and watched a movie. By the time his dad got home, Stiles was ready to sleep again. He’d be going back to Hanover the next day, after his dad got off work, and then he’d be right back in Wentworth on Wednesday. Stiles readied himself to go to bed, pulling the hoodie back on without thinking about it. He went to his dad’s room, knocking on the door before entering. 

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles said as he stifled back a yawn. 

“Hey yourself,” the Sheriff said from where he was already in bed, a pair of glasses on as he read over a case file in bed. He folded it up before Stiles got too close, like he didn’t want him to see it. Stiles sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes glancing over the name on the file. It wasn’t one that sounded familiar. “You get much done today?”

“Not so much,” Stiles said. “But I have time tomorrow before you get off. I have to finish a book for Monday.” 

“I’m proud of you,” he said. It threw Stiles off, hearing it out of the blue like that. He didn’t feel like he deserved it, really. “I see your face, you don’t believe me. Well, I have to tell you that it’s true. You could have moped in the hospital, could have not worked hard to graduate early. You have amazed me, kiddo.” 

“Dad,” Stiles said, looking down at his hands. He didn’t know who he was before, not really, but he knew that what he had in front of him was a future and he wasn’t about to let his lost past keep him from living a life. “I’m not sure I deserve it? I mean, I’m just going to school.”

“An Ivy League school,” his dad pointed out. “A good one at that. Your mom would be proud of you, too.” Stiles smiled at that, knowing it must hurt to bring her up. 

“Did I ever almost drown?” Stiles blurted out. His dad’s brow furrowed as he shook his head. 

“Not that I know of, why? Did you dream that you did?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles said as he scratched his head. “I did. It’s weird, I’m starting to remember my dreams. I guess they could just be dreams, though. Everyone dreams.” 

“I know I do. I have some pretty weird dreams.” 

“These feel real, is the only thing,” Stiles said. “I felt like I was drowning, choking on water as I held someone up. I let them go, though.” 

“That doesn’t sound like you, to let someone go.” 

“Really?” Stiles asked, intrigued. “You don’t think I would?”

“No,” his dad said as he shook his head, taking Stiles’ hand. “You’d dive back in after them.” Stiles’ eyes widened as the same pool scene flashed before his eyes, about him diving back into the water and pulling up dead weight. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, barely audible. 

“Go to sleep, kiddo.”

“You know, I’m eighteen now. You can call me something else.”

“Like your full name?” The Sheriff teased. Stiles stuck his tongue out. He definitely didn’t want to be called that. 

“Okay, fine. I concede. Call me kiddo all you want.”

“Damn right.”

Stiles didn’t fall asleep easily. He kept thinking about the pool, about the phone call with Scott. He didn’t dream when sleep finally took him, or if he did he didn’t recall what it had been about by the time he woke up. He managed to finish _Faustus_ , shower, and pack with an hour to spare before the Sheriff pulled up the driveway. Stiles spent the hour talking to Ben on the phone as he sat out in the backyard. Whoever owned the house before them had kept up the flower beds and garden. Neither Stiles nor his dad had a green thumb, but with it being autumn there were leaves covering everything. In the middle of the garden there was an old wooden swing big enough for two people, or for Stiles to lay down on it with his knees bent. He laid on his back, swinging back and forth slowly as he talked to Ben until his dad appeared on the porch, already changed out of his uniform 

The car ride back was quiet, and Stiles didn’t think he was making up the tension-filled air that seemed to hang heavy between them as they drove down I-91. For the life of him though, Stiles didn’t know why it felt that way. 

“Did you dream at all last night?” His dad asked, finally. Stiles shook his head as his fingers tapped rhythmically against his jeans. 

“Back to normal,” Stiles attempted to joke. He got nothing as a response. After a few more minutes of silence, Stiles decided to bring up his unease. “Are we okay?” Stiles asked. “I mean, you seem upset at something, but not angry. You’re silent upset and I just-”

“Yeah, we’re good,” the Sheriff said, interrupting Stiles. “It’s just... work. Some stuff has been happening that reminds me of, well. It’s just some coincidental stuff that sounds a lot like an open-ended case back home.” 

“Like what?” Stiles asked. 

“You know I can’t tell you that, confidential.” That was the end of that conversation, but at least the Sheriff wasn’t mad at him for something. Stiles slumped down in his seat and watched the trees as they passed them by. 

The Sheriff dropped Stiles off at Ben’s, stopping long enough to talk with him before heading back. Ben met them outside the apartment complex, shaking the Sheriff’s hand as Stiles stood there awkwardly. His dad never really met anyone he had slept with, to his knowledge, and it was weird to have his dad _know_ that he was sleeping with someone. Still, his dad was a champ and didn’t embarrass him by telling any old stories. Stiles bit his lip when he realized that his dad wouldn’t do that, because they never talked about anything that Stiles couldn’t remember, like that time was off-limits. If Stiles remembered it, then that would be different, but the Sheriff wasn’t about to tell a story that Stiles himself didn’t recall. 

Stiles hugged his dad before he drove off, burying his face against his dad’s jacket. It wouldn’t be long, he told himself, before Wednesday. At that moment, though, it felt miles away. 

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said as he took a step back from his dad, a step towards Ben. 

“Call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” Stiles called out as he watched his dad get into his car. Ben’s fingers linked with his, squeezing his hand as they watched him drive away. 

They fucked on Ben’s couch, barely in the door before they stripped off their clothes. Stiles, with his head pressed into the cushions, felt his chest tighten as pain erupted at the back of his head. He felt it everywhere, like something severed mentally. He didn’t mention anything, though. He didn’t know what to say, how to tell Ben that he felt someone elses hands on him, stronger hands ghosting over his body. Muscle memory of being held up, pinned against a wall, breath against his skin. Stiles let out a gasp as he pictured the flashing blue eyes once more, shaking as he came to the memory of being fucked in his bed. 

Afterward, Stiles sat on Ben’s bed, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, looking down at his phone. He was trying to talk himself out of calling Wendy. His chest still felt tight, like he couldn’t breathe. Ben was in the shower, and Stiles couldn’t shake the feeling that at any moment he could remember more, sense more, and that scared him. 

He picked up the phone, dialed Wendy’s office number, then let it ring. It was late on a Sunday, but he needed to at least leave a message. He needed to see her, and he couldn’t wait until the following Friday. After her generic message to please leave his information, Stiles readied himself to speak by clearing his throat. He was tugging at his hair as it beeped, finally allowing him to leave a message. 

“Hey, Wendy, it’s Stiles Stilinski. I’m calling because I think I need to see you sometime before Wednesday. I think I’m remembering things, and some of them are weird and I don’t think waiting until after Thanksgiving is going to be okay? Call me back when you can, thanks.” 

Stiles sat staring at his phone long after he hung up, with his knees pulled up close to his chest, his chin resting against them. Ben walked into the room with a towel wrapped around his waist, an eyebrow arched at Stiles. 

“You okay?” He asked. Stiles shrugged. “You can talk about it, if you want.”

“There isn’t really anything specific,” Stiles told him as he watched Ben drop his towel in order to change into his own pajamas. “I’ve been remembering my dreams.”

“That’s normal,” Ben said as he pulled on a t-shirt. Stiles bit his lip, knowing that for him it wasn’t.

“I think I am remembering, though. Like, really remembering.” Ben sat down on the bed nearby Stiles, his hands on Stiles’ arms, thumbs caressing his skin affectionately. 

“That’s good, right?” Stiles nodded his head that it was. “Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” 

“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted aloud. “I’m just scared, I guess. It sounds dumb when I say it out loud.” 

“Well, what kind of stuff have you remembered?” Stiles didn’t want to tell him about his wet dream, about the feel of someone else’s hands on him, about the fact that he came by remembering and not because of Ben. 

“Just, stuff,” Stiles said vaguely. “Like, for instance, I covered my dad with a blanket and I remembered doing it in another house, and I smelled alcohol.”

“Okay...”

“My dad doesn’t drink, Ben,” Stiles said, his voice becoming manic. “At least, the dad I know doesn’t. What if he used to? I don’t know. I don’t know anything, apparently.” 

“You know who you are now,” Ben said, his hands cupping Stiles’ face. Stiles looked into his eyes, searching for something, anything. “And that is what is important, at least to me.” Stiles tried to smile, but he knew it fell short. They kissed, then, and Stiles closed his eyes. All he saw was the nameless man whom he saved from drowning. 

Falling asleep in Ben’s bed with Ben’s arms wrapped around him seemed suffocating. Stiles had dozed off at one point but was wide awake as Ben slept easily next to him. Stiles’ hand was pressed against Ben’s chest, his fingers moving slightly against the fabric of Ben’s shirt. He looked at Ben’s sleeping face, at his eyelashes and the turn of his nose. Stiles looked at his lips and his eyebrows, searching. For what, he had no idea, but that didn’t stop him from looking. Shifting his position, Stiles turned away from Ben so that he was facing the door. Stiles fell into a restless sleep. 

At first, all Stiles felt was anxiety. He’s in a parking garage, dressed in a tie and a stiff button up shirt and standing in front of him was a man. Stiles didn’t know him, but his dream self did. 

_“So you’re not going to kill me?”_ Stiles heard himself say. It was like he was watching a movie, but he was still in his own body. He took a step back as the other man came forward. Fear gripped him. He wanted to run, but he stood his ground. 

_Don’t you understand yet? I’m not the bad guy here.”_

_You turn into a giant monster with red eyes and fangs, and you’re not the bad guy here?”_ Stiles couldn’t stop himself from saying the words, despite the fact that he had no idea what he was talking about. The man before him looked him over, tilting his head as if deliberating something. 

_”I like you, Stiles. Since you’ve helped me, I’m going to give you something in return. Do you want the bite?”_ Stiles stilled, his eyes widening at the implication. Dream-him knew what it meant, his heart beat picked up and that alone made him recoil. What the fuck did he mean by bite? And red eyes, a monster? 

_“What?”_ Was all that Stiles could say as a response. 

_”Do you want the bite?”_ He repeated. _“If it doesn’t kill you, and it could, you’ll become like us.”_

Stiles was shaken awake by Ben, his body had broken out in a cold sweat, his chest hurt from he didn’t even know what. As he gasped for breath, Ben looked at him with concern written all over his face. 

“What?” Stiles asked. He was panting as if he had run a mile, unable to escape his dream. 

“You were hyperventilating,” Ben said, his hand against Stiles’ forehead. His hair was drenched. Stiles licked his lips as he nodded his head. 

“Bad dream,” was all he said. “I’m going to get some water.” He got out of bed, then went straight for the kitchen. He downed an entire glass of water as he tried not to think about his dream. Monsters with red eyes and bites filled his thoughts. He saw a flash of a beast on its hind legs, with red glowing eyes and he knew that whatever he had just dreamed had to have actually happened. It was like he had lived a real nightmare. Stiles sat down on the cool, tiled floor with another glass of water in his hands. He stared down at it as he tried to regulate his breathing. He heard Ben approach, but he didn’t want to talk to him. Ben sat down beside him, his hand on Stiles’ back for comfort. Stiles leaned against him, his head resting on Ben’s shoulder as he saw the man grab his wrist, yanking it towards his mouth. Stiles looked down at his wrist where it was bare, the skin unmarked. 

“Do you remember it?” Ben asked after a long silence. Stiles decided to shake his head, just to keep it easier. There was no way he was telling Ben that he thought monsters might, in fact, be real. “Do you think you’d be able to go back to sleep?” Ben’s voice was low, gravelly from sleep but calm. His fingers raked through Stiles’ hair, caring. Stiles shut his eyes. He didn’t want to be coddled. He sat up, cleared his throat, then downed the rest of the water. 

“Yeah, I can sleep.” They got back in bed, facing each other. Stiles fit so easily against Ben, with his leg sandwiched between Ben’s, his fingers clenched around Ben’s shirt. “Sorry for waking you,” Stiles felt the need to say. “I don’t like sleeping over because of my dreams.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ben said, his eyes already closed. He had almost been back asleep already. Stiles wondered if that was true or not. He squeezed his arms, closing his eyes to mirror Ben. All he saw was red. 

At class the next day, Stiles couldn’t concentrate. He hadn’t gone back to sleep, too afraid to close his eyes for an extended period of time. He kept seeing those red eyes, hearing a growl, and smelling something burning. It was disturbing. Stiles had received a call back from Wendy, telling him that she had an opening after his Ancient Greece class, so all he had to do was hold out until then. His leg was bouncing, his fingers tapping against the desk as he stared at his professor, not paying attention to the lecture. Usually he was all ears, writing down everything as fast as he could, but he just couldn’t concentrate. He looked out the window, zoning out. 

Stiles’ eyes narrowed as he saw something approaching the window. It looked like a blackbird, and it wasn’t slowing down. Stiles held his breath as it hit the window. He jumped as another hit, then another. He practically fell out of his desk as the windows were pummeled with birds, their blood smearing across the glass. Stiles covered his head as they broke the glass around him. 

“Mr. Stilinski,” Stiles heard his professor say, perturbed. Stiles looked up from where he had huddled against the floor. He was the only one there, with everyone else looking at him like he was insane. Stiles looked at the windows, all pristine and not covered with dead birds. 

He was hallucinating. 

“Mr. Stilinski, do you need to leave?” His professor asked. Stiles nodded his head, gathering his books. He didn’t look at anyone as he walked out the door with his head hung low, eyes to the floor. He rushed to Wendy’s office on the opposite side of campus, finding a seat that he could wait in until she was free. Stiles was shaking, his fingers trembling. Birds, dead birds. He swore he heard people screaming, that he had covered someone with his arms to keep them out of harms way. 

“Stiles?” Wendy asked. She was standing over him. Stiles was sitting leaned over, with his head in his hands. “Do you want to come inside?” 

Stiles followed her into her office. Usually he sat down on the couch, but he decided to pace instead. “Tell me what’s going on,” she prompted him as she took her usual spot, grabbing her pen and paper. Stiles stared at them, not wanting her to write anything down. She was going to think he needed to be committed. 

Maybe he did, though. 

“I think I’m remembering,” Stiles started to say. She waited patiently for him to continue. He told her about his dad, about smelling the alcohol. He told her about his wet dream, the fact that when he had sex with Ben it didn’t feel like Ben. She remained quiet until he told her about the monster.

“That sounds like a normal nightmare,” she said easily. Stiles wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t.

“Then why did I see the monster after I woke up?” 

“It could be residual, our dreams in reality only last for ten seconds. We really only remember a fragment of them. You could have just been recalling something that had happened in the dream but not the part you remember having.” 

It made sense, but Stiles knew it had really happened. He told her about the birds, about how real it felt. Instead of saying anything about it, she asked him about his migraines. 

“I haven’t had any,” Stiles said, wondering why it mattered when he was basically having visions. 

“So, based on that fact alone, do you believe these to be memories?” She asked him. Stiles decided to sit. He pulled at his hair, shaking his head. “If, until now, if you even thought about the hospital, or about Beacon Hills your head hurt, what has changed?”

“Nothing,” Stiles whispered. “Nothing has changed.”

“I think that you may just be remembering your dreams,” she told him calmly. “After this, I want you to start a dream journal for me, for us. If you can, write down the ones you have just retold me, and then whenever you wake up from a nightmare, try writing it down. Can you do that?” 

“Yes,” Stiles said, although that didn’t stop them from happening. He wanted this all to stop. “I can do that.”

“Good. Now, as for the frequency, I think that keeping on a schedule is key. Try not to do anything out of the norm for the next few days.” Stiles thought about how he had plans before he went home to hang out with friends. He nodded his head anyway. 

“Got it.” 

“Are you feeling better?” She asked, concerned. Stiles nodded his head, even though he was far from okay. “I’m going to give you my number, for emergencies,” she told him, writing it down on a slip of paper. “If you have a nightmare that you can’t shake, you can call me.” Stiles felt better, at having someone to talk to about it.

“Thanks,” he said as he slipped it into his bag. “Hopefully I won’t need to use it.” She smiled at him as he left, feeling at least a little bit better. He spent the rest of his afternoon at the coffee shop, getting as much work done as he could. His walk back to his dorm was a long one, so he called Ben to pass the time. 

“Hey, how’d it go?” Ben asked. Stiles had told him about going to see Wendy about his dreams, but something about the way Ben asked him seemed off. 

“Uh, okay? I mean, she seems to think they are just dreams.”

“Probably,” Ben said with a sigh. For the first time, Stiles felt like he was interfering with something, like Ben didn’t want to talk to him. It made his stomach drop. “Listen, I’m in the middle of something right now, can I call you back in an hour or so?” 

“Sure,” Stiles said, his voice low. “Whenever you get a chance.” 

“Great, talk soon,” Ben said before he hung up. 

Once Stiles was back in his room, he collapsed on his bed. He had more that he needed to do, but he wasn’t in the mood. Something was wrong with Ben, and it bothered him. They had only been dating for a little over a month, maybe a little longer, and never in that time had Ben ever blown him off, even if he was working on something. Stiles curled up on his bed as he waited for Ben to call back. 

He drifted off to sleep without meaning to. 

_”What, are you like, ninety?”_ Stiles asked an old man that stood before him. He was in a basement as far as he could tell, with drywall and cinder blocks, along with a makeshift wooden handrail and shitty lighting. _“I could kick your ass up and down this room.”_

The next thing he knew, he was on the ground. He had been punched. From the ground he saw two people hanging from the ceiling, their mouths covered in duct tape, dried blood sliding down from their wrists. Stiles’ jersey was grabbed roughly, and then he was hit again and again. He tried to push away, but he couldn’t. He felt blood dripping from his lip, and his stomach hurt from where he was pretty sure he got kicked. He cried out, unsure why he was being beaten. 

Stiles woke up to his lip throbbing. He had been biting down on it in his sleep. He looked at his phone to see that it was two in the morning. There were no missed calls. Stiles tried not to think about Ben as he left his room, heading down the hall to the communal bathroom. He checked his face, half expecting to see his face beat to shit. There was nothing there, though. 

Back in his room, Stiles wrote down everything he could remember to the fact that he had been wearing a number 24 jersey, to the blonde girl with curly hair and the black boy who looked like he could have broken out of his restraints. He ended up writing more than he had remembered, like how he had said that he could be found, that he had a stench. That Scott would find him. 

Stiles put the pen down, shoving the pad of paper away from him. Scott might know, would know what was happening to him. If Scott knew him, really knew him, and if he had been looking for him-

He was going crazy, Stiles decided. Drowning, and bites, and now being beat up by geriatrics, something was off with him. No wonder Ben didn’t want to talk to him. Stiles thought about calling his dad, but he refrained. Instead of going back to sleep, he did homework and started reading _The Epic of Gilgamesh_. He was still reading when his alarm went off to get ready for class. 

While he was in line for coffee, Ben called. 

“Sorry about last night,” Ben said. “I passed out.”

“So did I,” Stiles told him. “Don’t worry about it.” Ben sighed over the receiver. It made Stiles uneasy. 

“Can we meet up?” Ben asked him. 

“Sure, tonight?”

“I was thinking between classes.” Stiles’ stomach tied itself in knots. 

“I have a break from 11 to 12:30,” Stiles said even though he didn’t want to. “We can meet then.” 

“Great, I’ll meet you by Howe?” Ben said quickly. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, then Ben was gone. Stiles told himself that he was thinking the worse when he assumed that this talk would be one of the breaking up sort. He wanted to believe he was an optimist, but he felt like maybe Ben thought Stiles wasn’t worth the nightmares and the thinking monsters were real. Even though Stiles hadn’t even told Ben about the monsters. 

Stiles tried paying attention in class, but it was no use. He knew what was coming. At 11:15 he stood in front of the Howe Library, waiting impatiently for Ben to arrive. Usually, when Ben met up with him, he’d kiss him hello, they’d hold hands, or do some sort of public display of affection. This time, though, Ben just smiled at him. It wasn’t even a genuine smile. 

They sat down on a bench outside, their knees touching. All Stiles wanted was to reach forward and hug Ben, but he stopped himself. 

“I think we need a break,” Ben said right out. Stiles looked down at his hands. “Look, Stiles. I really like you, but this is all a little more than I signed up for.” Stiles didn’t know what to say, really. “You started out as a one night stand, you know? And I was fine with us becoming more, more than fine. Finding out about your amnesia, you know, was a bit of a shock and who you are now is someone that I’d like to get to know, but I’m graduating-”

“You don’t have time,” Stiles said, defeated. “To deal with me remembering.”

“I don’t want to get into a serious relationship with you before I leave you here. You’re a freshman, Stiles. This was casual, I mean it was a mutual thing, but-”

“I get it, Ben. You liked me when I wasn’t having issues.”

“That’s... that’s putting it harshly.”

“It’s the truth,” Stiles said, getting defensive. “I like you too, but I don’t want to drag you through this if you don’t want to be.”

“I don’t want to break up, but I just-”

“So you want to fuck me, but you don’t want to see me freak out.” 

“Stiles,” Ben said, reaching for Stiles’ hand. Stiles yanked it away. 

“No,” Stiles said. “You don’t get to hold my hand. If you don’t have time for a real relationship, fine. But I’m not okay with being casual with you. I’m going through a lot of shit and I need someone I can count on.”

“I want to be that person,” Ben said. “But I don’t think I can be.” Stiles just shrugged as a response. 

“Then you can’t be.” 

“I don’t want us to be over,” Ben tried to backtrack. “I just-”

“You think I want to wake up from a nightmare that may or may not have been my life before here?” Stiles asked. “Because I am _pretty sure_ the shit I have been seeing was real, is real. Believe me, Ben, I wish these were just dreams.”

“I want you to be happy.” Stiles laughed as he shook his head. 

“No, you want me to be normal.” Ben looked defeated, like Stiles was right. Stiles knew he was, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. “Goodbye, Ben.” Stiles got up, shrugged on his backpack, and walked away. 

He sniffed back his emotions, not letting himself cry. He stopped walking when he wiped his hand across his nose, his eyes closing for a second. He saw a girl, dead on a gurney, along with Melissa McCall standing in front of him. The girl was his childhood friend, Heather. When Stiles opened his eyes, he was crying, but it wasn’t because of Ben. He took out his phone, calling his dad. 

“Stiles, is everything alright?” He asked. 

“Is Heather dead?” Stiles asked, his voice shaking. 

“What? How did you- Stiles, are you remembering things?” 

“Dad, is she dead?”

“Yes,” the Sheriff said, sighing like he hadn’t wanted to tell him the truth. “She was killed last August.” 

“Fuck,” Stiles said, unable to think of anything else to say. “Shit, fuck.”

“Do you have someone to go to?” The Sheriff asked. “Where is Ben?” Stiles laughed, then, unable to stop. 

“We just broke up,” Stiles said between gulps of air. “So no one. I have no one and Heather is dead and I got beat up by an old man.”

“What?” The Sheriff boomed. It startled Stiles, but he recovered. He stopped laughing, wiping the tears from his eyes. “What about getting beat up?”

“Was I beat up ever?” Stiles asked. 

“Yes,” the Sheriff said. “But you had told me it was by the other lacrosse team.” Stiles thought about the jersey he had been wearing. He supposed it could have been a lacrosse jersey. “You used to lie to me all the time at that point.” 

Stiles felt bad even lying to his dad about his dreams and couldn’t picture lying to him about who beat him up. He wanted to tell the truth. 

“It was this old man,” Stiles told him. “And there were two kids my age in this basement, and he just, like, beat me dad. I’m scared about what else I’m going to see.” 

“One question, kiddo, and I promise not to push you further,” his dad said. Stiles waited. “Were the kids a boy and a girl?”

“Yeah,” Stiles told him. “A blonde girl and this big black guy-”

“Erica and Boyd.” Hearing their names, Stiles saw them flash before his eyes, Erica smirking at him and Boyd raising his eyebrow questioningly. 

“I knew them,” Stiles whispered. “Are they okay?” There was silence on the line. “Jesus Christ, dad, what was I involved in? Did I? Did I kill-”

“No,” the Sheriff said outright. “Not you. You were the one hurt.” 

“But I’m alive,” Stiles stated. 

“Yes, you are.” They were both silent, then, not knowing what to say. Stiles took a shaky breath. “You want me to come get you?” 

“No,” Stiles said, even though internally he screamed ‘yes’. “I can make it until Wednesday.” 

“Okay, you just need to call me and I will come get you, you understand?”

“Yeah, dad. I understand.”

“Okay, I love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, dad.” 

Stiles didn’t know what to do with himself. He went into the nearest building, finding a bathroom to go into. He splashed water on his face, clearing his tears away. He looked at himself in the mirror, face red and splotchy. 

“Erica and Boyd,” Stiles found himself saying. “Heather.” He breathed in, and then out. He splashed more water on his face, trying to keep his eyes from watering. He wondered if he should call Wendy, or just write everything down. 

He got to his next class early. His notepad before him, he stared down at it, reading over the words he had already written. Monsters, beatings, deaths, what more would he envision? How much had happened to him? Stiles wanted to throw the notepad across the room, to rip up all the pages. He didn’t want to know what he had forgotten, not now. Not if everything had been pain and suffering. He held it together, as people started trickling in, wiping his face clean of emotion. Stiles stared out ahead as the lecture began, not thinking at all about his memories. 

On his way back to his dorm, finally, Stiles passed by a bulletin board. It was always there, full of fliers for various things, but normally he didn’t give it a second glance. Today, he did. He stopped at it, his eyes casting over fliers seeking roommates, selling used books, and fell instead on a flier for a rave. Stiles usually wouldn’t think twice about going, but something made him take a step closer. 

Stiles found himself crouched in front of someone he didn’t know. They were slumped over in a chair, their eyes open, staring off to the side. Stiles narrowed his eyes at him, his hands tugging at his pants as his shifted, readjusting himself before he spoke. His lips moved without him knowing what was going to come out. 

_“Jackson, is that you?”_ Stiles asked. The boy in front of him didn’t move, but responded in an eerie voice that definitely was not his own.

 _“Us. We’re all here.”_ Stiles turned his head slightly, seeing that he wasn’t alone. Behind him stood the girl who died, Erica, along with someone he didn’t know. Stiles turned to them as if knowing them, looking to them for guidance. They looked at him, just as lost. He clenched his jaw, gathering his resolve as he turned back towards Jackson. 

_“Are you the one killing people?”_

Stiles blinked and he was back in front of the rave flier, no longer interrogating a supposed murderer. Stiles gulped as he looked around, his eyes wide. Erica had been there, alive and beautiful. Stiles wondered who the curly haired boy had been, but he had no one to ask. Had he been an interrogator? What the fuck was he doing surrounded by monsters and murders? Stiles sat down at the nearest bench, writing down his hallucination. He didn’t want to be sent away, he didn’t want a padded cell with a straight jacket. He didn’t want to be medicated because of what he knew was his past, but he couldn’t tell Wendy about the monsters and how real he knew them to be and he wasn’t about to tell her about murders. 

By the time Stiles got to his dorm room, he had a headache. He practically rushed at putting up the blackout curtain, then threw off his clothes before he crawled into bed. His head pounded, his breathing was too loud and each breath he took ached. He knew that no matter how he lay down, it wouldn’t help. Stiles kept his eyes shut, knowing the pain that was going to come. He couldn’t stop thinking about Jackson, about Erica and Boyd, about Heather. His his throbbed, his body shook as his teeth chattered. Eventually, he slept. 

_“You’re an asshole,”_ Stiles said as he heard his bedroom door open. He didn’t even turn to see who walked in. 

_“I had to go see Scott first,”_ a familiar voice said. Stiles swiveled around in his desk chair, the room around him’s walls covered in newspaper clippings and red string. His eyes fell on the figure from his wet dream. They were in the doorway with their hands shoved in their front pockets, accentuating their apparent tightness. Stiles looked up, locking eyes with them. He could feel his anger, but he didn’t know where it was coming from. 

_“Nice of you to call,”_ Stiles sniped as he turned back around to face his computer, only it wasn’t the one that he had now, at college. This was a different one, one from before. Stiles read what was before him: articles about Japanese folklore. He clicked around, hoping to find some key, something important, but he was wrenched away, his chair twirling around. He came face to face with his wet dream, their lips so close to his that all he had to do was lean forward and they could kiss. They had their hands on the arms of his chair, holding him in place. Stiles’ hands were in his lap, clenched tight. 

_“I couldn’t call,”_ they told him, their eyes falling to his lips. Stiles licked them petulantly. _“Cora-”_

_“I don’t give a rat’s ass,”_ Stiles said, cutting them off. _“If Cora threw your phone into a ravine, or if she ate it for breakfast. You, douchecanoe, fucking left me. So step the fuck back,”_ Stiles spat as he reached up and pushed back against their chest. 

They moved back easily, too easily. Stiles fumed because he knew that they had made it easy on him on purpose. _“Fuck you, De-”_

_“Stiles, I was always going to come back.”  
_  
 _“And you expected me to what? Wait for you like a blushing bride?”_

_“No,”_ they said with a sigh. _“I shouldn’t have just... I needed to go with her, Stiles.”_

 _“Well what if I needed you? Did you ever think about that?”_ Stiles kicked back against the floor, distancing himself. _“Just go, I don’t need anyone’s help. I’ll figure this out on my own.”_

_“Scott called me for a reason, Stiles. The kitsune-”_

_“This isn’t your fight,”_ Stiles said with narrowed eyes. _“You’re not pack. I’m not your emissary.”_

Stiles woke up slowly, his eyes blinking through the darkness. He lay there, unmoving, as he processed his dream. The words emissary, kitsune, and pack echoed in his mind over and over before he realized that his migraine had dissipated. Stiles sat up slowly, licking his lips, rewetting his mouth. It was dry, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He felt like he had been knocked out, his head fuzzy and limbs rubbery. 

Turning on a side lamp instead of the overhead light, Stiles squinted at its sudden brightness. He searched for his phone, checking the time. It was 11:15am. He missed two classes and was about to be late for a third, but he found himself not caring. Instead, he grabbed his notepad and wrote down everything he could remember, underlining the word ‘douchecanoe’ twice. Whoever his wet dream was, he was an asshole. 

Stiles fell back into bed, burying his face into his pillow. All he wanted was not to remember. He was done with remembering. He’d rather have ignorance than monsters with red eyes and friends being murdered by a blonde jock who looked like he would beat Stiles up in high school. 

Deciding to stay in bed until his father came, Stiles lay there until the need to go to the bathroom was too great to ignore. When he got back, he had a missed call and a voicemail from his dad. He got back into bed, pulled his covers over his head, then listened to the voicemail. 

“Hey kiddo, I’m worried about you. I have this feeling, so I’m going to head out to come pick you up now. Call me back.” Stiles didn’t know he had started crying until he sniffled. Wet, warm tears trailed down his face as he held onto his phone. He wiped his face on his pillow, trying to get the tears to stop falling but hearing his dad’s voice broke him. He was remembering, they were coming faster and faster and there was no way to stop them. Stiles called his dad back, waiting for him to pick up. 

“Stiles, are you okay?” 

“No,” Stiles said. “I’m remembering and I don’t understand anything, Dad. I don’t- I can’t explain and I can’t tell Wendy-”

“I’m on my way, I’ll be there soon.” 

“Monsters and emissaries with murder-”

“Stiles, I’m going to stay on the line, alright? I’m right here. Talk to me, what did you have for dinner.” Stiles’ brow furrowed as he tried to think. He hadn’t eaten. 

“I didn’t, not... for like twenty-four hours,” Stiles groaned. “I need something. I forgot to eat.” Stiles forced himself to get up to find a granola bar. “Everything happened with Ben, then I got a migraine and I just got up a bit ago. I skipped class because I hadn’t set an alarm.”

“How bad of a migraine?” The Sheriff asked. 

“I slept it off, thankfully. I didn’t get sick and I felt it coming, but it was after I hallucinated about being at this rave,” Stiles hadn’t known it was at a rave until he said it but he knew it was the truth. “And I was interrogating this kid named Jackson-”

“Jackson Whittemore?” 

“I don’t know, yeah. I guess so?” Stiles scratched his head, unsure. “Erica was there, and this curly haired guy.”

“That has to be Isaac.”

“Isaac?” Stiles asked, recalling Scott mentioning an Isaac on the phone. “Is Isaac alive?”

“He is,” the Sheriff said, but revealed nothing else. Stiles ate his granola bar in silence for a moment. 

“Is Jackson?” Stiles asked. 

“He’s alive, living in London.”

“Why?” Stiles asked, hoping for a longer explanation. 

“It’s a long story, but his parents wanted him out of Beacon Hills.”

“Just like you wanted me out,” Stiles whispered. He knew deep down that there hadn’t been a car wreck. He never needed physical therapy, never had scars from one, or aches and pains from whiplash. It was only his missing memory. Only, he hadn’t felt the need to think about it. Stiles wanted to believe whatever his father told him. The Sheriff was silent for a long time before he said anything. 

“Yes, Stiles. Just like how I wanted you out.” Stiles put his head in his hands as he let the information gather in his head. 

“I was an emissary,” Stiles stated. His dad didn’t dispute it, so he continued on. “I was kidnapped by a crazy old man who had teenagers hanging in his basement and he beat me up. I almost drown in a pool trying to keep up some asshole who came into my room after being away for a long time and... fuck...”

Stiles stopped talking because he was about to tell his dad that they had been fucking. He fucked the asshat fucker that left him. He wasn’t pack, Stiles had said. He didn’t call. 

“Stiles? Are you there? What asshole in the pool came into your room?” 

“This asshole, dad, I don’t know.” Stiles wanted to throw his phone, he was so frustrated with everything. If he was going to remember, why draw it out so long? Why couldn’t he just know? “I don’t feel good.”

Stiles felt like he was going to be sick. 

“Dad, I’m going to call you back, I have to go.” Stiles hung up the phone, tossed it onto his bed, then ran down the hall to the bathroom. 

When he got back, he tried to pack. He shoved clothes that had been strewn across his floor into his bag, then got dressed. He hadn’t showered, but that could wait. He sat on his bed, waiting for his dad to arrive. 

Stiles was walking outside to where his dad was waiting, parked and ready to go, when Stiles’ vision flashed to another building facade. It was night, and Stiles was alone in an alleyway with his phone pressed against his ear. 

_“I don’t know what to do, and I’m standing out here all alone, and I’m hearing gunfire, and werewolves, and I’m standing here like a fucking idiot with a handful of magic fairy dust and I don’t have enough, okay?”_ He was scared and panicked. He had an empty bag of whatever fairy dust was by his side. Stiles mumbled to himself about believing and imagining as he grabbed the last handful of it. He closed his eyes as he walked, hoping that there would be enough to finish the circle of mountain ash. Stiles opened his eyes when he ran out, his hope dwindling long enough to look down to see that the circle was finished. It was impossible, but he had done it. Stiles punched the air as he radiated happiness. He did it, he fucking did it. He had a _spark_.

Stiles felt his dad’s arms around him, holding him. His eyes were closed and he was shaking, his face wet with tears. He didn’t realize how much he needed his dad until he was there, standing in front of him. Stiles hugged him, sniffing back his emotions. 

“It’s okay, Stiles. It’ll all be okay.” How could his dad say that? When he was hallucinating, having flashbacks randomly as he walked down the street. There was no way he could function normally right now. Stiles was glad it was Thanksgiving break because he desperately needed the time off.

“Make it stop,” Stiles begged. “I just want it to stop.” He felt his father’s hand on the back of his head, comforting him. Stiles knew it wouldn’t stop, and he knew that his dad couldn’t stop it either but that didn’t mean he couldn’t say what he wanted out loud. 

“Let’s get you home,” his dad said instead of more sugar-coated reassurance. 

On the way back to Wentworth, Stiles sat hunched over with his hood pulled up over his head. He sat with his hands covering his eyes as his dad drove in silence. The drive felt longer than it normally did. When they got to the house, Stiles curled up on the couch, not even making it all the way to his bedroom. His dad left him there to nap, but Stiles didn’t sleep. He lay there, thinking about his life. The Sheriff’s voice, muffled by the distance, could be heard. He was talking on the phone, from what Stiles could tell, his voice hushed. Stiles twisted his body so that he could look down the hall. His dad’s bedroom door was cracked open. The Sheriff had obviously gone into it to make the phone call and hadn’t closed it fully. Stiles got up, walking gingerly across the wood floor so he couldn’t be heard. He breathed through his nose as he listened at the door. 

“I don’t know what to do here,” Stiles heard the Sheriff say. “He was your apprentice, shouldn’t you be here for this? I can’t answer any of his questions, Deaton.” Stiles’ brow furrowed because Deaton was the name of the veterinarian that Scott had mentioned on the phone. Stiles had been an apprentice vet? That didn’t make sense, Scott was the one that loved animals. The Sheriff let out a long suffering sigh that Stiles was used to hearing. Stiles leaned against the doorframe, his vision blurred as his head began to hurt again. 

Flashes of memories cascaded over him. A dead, severed body that was somehow also a wolf, rope laced with purple flowers that Stiles’ mind let him know was wolfsbane, sitting in his father’s cruiser with the douchecanoe wet dream glaring at him from the back where he was in handcuffs. Stiles gasped as he blinked back to the present, his father looking at him from where he opened his bedroom door. He was still on the phone, looking at Stiles’ worriedly. 

“Let me talk to Deaton,” Stiles said, closing his eyes because of the throbbing in his head. He held out his hand for the phone, then waited. It only took a few seconds before his dad gave Stiles the phone. “Deaton?” Stiles asked. 

“Hello, Stiles,” Deaton said over the receiver. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Stiles spat. “I’ve got another migraine coming and memories are coming back more frequently and I can’t stop them.”

“How frequent are we talking here?” 

“I just had an... an attack of them. Just flashes that time, snippets.”

“Interesting,” Deaton said, which made Stiles angry. “Stiles, what do you know about what you are?” 

“What I am?” Stiles asked, looking to his dad who said nothing. He was just watching Stiles, gauging his reaction. “I’m an emissary.”

“Do you know what that is?” Deaton asked seriously. Stiles didn’t, not really. He thought about the mountain ash circle, the fact that he told Wet Dream that he wasn’t _his_ emissary. 

“Some sort of liaison that can, I don’t know, something with magic.” It sounded silly, saying magic out loud in a very real, very serious sense. “I used mountain ash. I- I remember you saying I had a spark.” 

“You do, Stiles,” Deaton reassured him. “And you’re right about being a liaison. Are you writing down every vision you have?” 

“Yes, well. I have been, but not today.” 

“How many have you had today?” Deaton asked him. 

“A lot,” Stiles mumbled. “But they are all just clips. I still have no idea... I don’t know what is going on.” 

“Hang in there, Stiles. We are dealing with things here that will sort everything out.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked. “What could be done from California that could help me?” 

“Everything,” Deaton said vaguely. “We will talk again soon.” With that, Deaton hung up on him and Stiles was even more confused than he had been before he talked with him. Stiles looked down at the phone, then up at his dad. 

“Is he always like that?” Stiles asked. To Stiles’ surprise, his dad laughed. 

“Yes, he is.” 

“Dad,” Stiles said, trying to think of the right wording he wanted to use. “Did you ever arrest someone I was dating?” His father stilled, his laughter falling away. He looked away from Stiles, like he was avoiding telling him anything. “It’s just that, I have had a lot of confusing memories resurface about this one person, and all of it is contradictory. One vision has us... close,” Stiles gulped before he continued on. “Then others we are shouting and like... Dad, I just had a vision of me talking to him when he was in the back of your cruiser.” The Sheriff’s eyes closed, his lips pursed. 

“I don’t know, Stiles.” He was lying. It was a blatant lie, and Stiles shook with anger. “You didn’t tell me much about your life. You hid everything from me for over a year.” 

“Everything?” Stiles asked, his heart beating fast. His dad didn’t know who Wet Dream was, he didn’t know about the pool, or about their fight. Or if he did, he wasn’t going to be the one to tell Stiles about it. 

“It took a long time for you to tell me about werewolves.”

“Were....wolves.” 

What the fuck. Stiles was pretty sure he stopped breathing. He felt like he got punched in the windpipe, blocking off his air passage as the vision of Scott, eyes yellowed and hair sprouted across his face and jawline. Claws and fangs, along with the sound of a wolf howling. Stiles’ best friend was a werewolf and Stiles had hidden it from his dad. He had been propositioned, asked if he wanted the bite. Stiles turned down being a werewolf. 

Blue eyes appeared in front of Stiles, gentle hands cupped his face as he shook. Stiles looked into their eyes, then fell to their lips. He closed his eyes as they kissed. The same smell that made Stiles relax filled his lungs. Safety, warmth, and love coursed through Stiles’ veins as his lips parted. Stiles had been dating a werewolf. 

Stiles’ eyes shot open, shock played across his face as he grasped his father’s shirt, his knuckles white. 

“Scott is a werewolf,” Stiles stated. “We found a body in the woods.” 

“Yes,” his father said, resigned. Stiles laughed as he covered his mouth with his hand. 

“Boyd and Erica... were werewolves too, and Jackson is a-”

“He is a werewolf, now, and so were Boyd and Erica.” Stiles looked around, trying to get a grip on himself because he couldn’t stop laughing. “Do you want to sit?” 

“Yeah, because I might fucking collapse, so.” Stiles let out a shaky breath as he sat on his dad’s bed. “So I lied to you for a year? Why would I do that?”

“You were... protecting me.” Stiles bit his lip. “You were protecting Scott, and you two took on too much for two teenage boys to handle.” 

“I’m beginning to see that,” Stiles said as he looked down at his hands. “So what happened?” Stiles asked. “I mean, to me.” The Sheriff looked pained, like he didn’t want to tell Stiles. “Don’t make me wait and see it for myself.” 

“Not today, Stiles. Not yet. We have to wait.”

“What?” Stiles asked. “Why?” 

“Because I don’t know enough to tell you everything you want to know.” 

“So who does? Scott? Let me talk to him-”

“You can’t,” the Sheriff said, reaching out and putting his hands on Stiles’ shoulders. “He’s busy.”

“That is such bullshit,” Stiles spat.

“It’s true. He and Deaton are working on helping you.” 

“Why now? Why not before, this entire time-”

“It is complicated.”

“So uncomplicate it!” Stiles said, getting worked up. 

“I can’t!” The Sheriff shouted. “All I have wanted for you was to move on. We were told you wouldn’t remember, Stiles. Ever. The second you did, I called Deaton and Scott. All we want is for you to be safe.”

“Safe?” Stiles asked. “What do you mean, safe? Have I not been... am I in danger?” 

“Yes,” the Sheriff admitted. “You were targeted,” he said, rubbing at an eye as he looked away from Stiles. When he looked back, he had tears in his eyes. “You remembering isn’t good, Stiles, for a lot of reasons. But I can’t begin to explain why on my own.” 

“Targeted by who? Werewolf mafia or something?” Stiles asked in an attempt to break the tension. He didn’t want to see his father cry ever again. The Sheriff’s phone rang, making both of them jump up in surprise. Stiles looked to see who was calling, but his dad answered before he could read it. 

“What’s happening?” He asked without preamble. He looked away from Stiles, like he couldn’t face him. Stiles wished he would put the phone on speaker, but he knew that his father wouldn’t do that. “Are you sure that is a good idea?” The Sheriff cleared his throat, continuing his conversation by standing up and walking around the room. “I guess so, I just -- that isn’t what we discussed would be best.”

Stiles knew he was being talked about, that they were making decisions about him, for him, without his consent and he didn’t even know who _they_ were. Stiles sneered as he stood up, walked over to his dad, and reached his hand out for the phone. 

“Let me talk to them,” he said, his voice confident. His dad faltered, contemplated not giving it to him. Stiles’ eyes narrowed, then the Sheriff gave in. Stiles put the phone up to his ear. “Who is this?” He asked. There was silence over the line. “Scott?” Stiles asked, looking at his dad for confirmation. He shook his head no. Stiles’ stomach clenched when he thought about who it could possibly be. He saw those blue eyes, felt hands on him, holding him close. Stiles felt warmth spread throughout his body as whoever was on the line let out a breath. 

“Not Scott,” they said in answer. Stiles wanted to collapse at the sound of their voice. He knew that voice. 

“Okay ‘Not Scott’,” Stiles said, breaking the ice. “Do you have a name?”

“Give the phone back to your dad,” they said, evading. 

“No,” Stiles said petulantly. “I have questions to ask you and the first is, who the fuck are you?”  
In response, Stiles got an audible sigh of frustration. 

“Tell the Sheriff that we will talk later.” All Stiles got after that was the dial tone. Stiles’ jaw dropped in exasperation as he looked to his dad for answers. 

“He hung up on me,” Stiles stated. His dad didn’t look surprised. 

“He didn’t want to talk to you on the phone.” Stiles made a face at his dad, what a dick move that was. 

“And I know this asshole?” Stiles asked, furious. He was at war with himself, half knowing they were _something_ and half remembering their fight and the fact that he was just hung up on. 

“What do you want for dinner?” The Sheriff asked, changing the subject. Stiles thought about fighting to continue the conversation, but something within him broke. He was exhausted and starving. 

“Pizza.”

“Cheese, right?” His dad asked, making sure. Stiles nodded. Everytime he thought about his memories, his chest constricted, his breathing became labored. He wanted this all over with. 

“I’m going to lay down,” Stiles muttered, leaving his dad to order the pizza. Instead of curling back up on the couch, Stiles went into his room. He undressed, changing out of his jeans, replacing them with pajama bottoms. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he passed out. 

Once again, Stiles was seated at his computer. He had an old leather bound book open beside it, his finger holding his place in the book as he scanned an article on his computer. His phone rang, making Stiles groan. He let it go to voicemail as he glanced at the time: 3:07am. Blinking a few times, Stiles stifled back a yawn. He had class in a few hours, and he hadn’t slept the night before either. Everytime he slept, he had nightmares. He was running on coffee and energy drinks, unable to stop. His phone rang again and this time he hit ignore. 

Sometime later, Stiles decided to check his phone. The time read 5:25 when he saw that both calls had been from someone labeled ‘Sourwolf’. Stiles knew who it was, though. He felt relieved as he called them back, instead of the anger he felt while awake. He knew he was dreaming, that he was remembering. Unable to sway what was happening to him, he put his phone up to his ear. 

_“You should be asleep,”_ a familiar voice said over the receiver. Stiles smirked as he twirled around in his chair. 

_“You shouldn’t be calling me in the middle of the night.”_

_“Is your window open?”_ They asked. _“I need to see you.”_

 _“I’m not fucking at five in the morning,”_ Stiles said nonchalantly. _“Besides my dad is about to be up soon.”_

_“Not a booty call, Stiles.”_

_“Window’s open,”_ Stiles said as he rolled his eyes, hanging up his phone. Within minutes, his window opened and in climbed the face he knew so well, now. _“What’d you need to see me about?”_

 _“You need to stop this,”_ they said, coming over and standing close to Stiles. Stiles’ eyes fell at their waist, their crotch. He looked up at them through heavy lidded eyes. 

_“You sure this isn’t a booty call?”_ Stiles asked with a lifted eyebrow. 

_“Stop looking into the kitsune, Stiles.”_ Stiles bristled. 

_“Fat chance,”_ He said as he began spinning back around. Wet Dream stopped his movement, though, turning him around so he had to face them once more. _“Why?”_

_“Because it is dangerous, something could happen.”_

_“Nothing is going to happen to me, alright? You didn’t have to come back, we got this.”_

_“You’re never going to forgive me, are you?”_ Stiles deflated as he looked up at them, his hand reaching for theirs, their fingers linking. 

_“Someday,”_ Stiles said, the corner of his mouth lifting. He reached out, his fingers clasping around fabric, pulling them close. They kissed, Stiles’ tongue guiding their mouths. There was a thud and suddenly the man before him was on his knees, their arms pulling Stiles closer. He fit well between Stiles’ spread legs, his stubble scratching across Stiles’ chin. He moaned as his fingers raked through hair, eventually tugging at the strands. _“I’m still mad,”_ Stiles mumbled against their lips. 

_“I know.”_

Stiles opened his eyes. He looked around the room, half expecting it to look like the room of his memories. What he saw instead was the bare, cream walls that he knew now to be his bedroom. His furniture was the same, though. Stiles sat up, rubbing at his eyes. He felt empty, like a part of him was still missing. Having flashes of his memory return to him was taking a toll on his perception of reality. He didn’t want it to get worse, to impede his life any more than it had. Eventually, Stiles got out of bed. His dad was watching TV when he finally ventured from his room. It wasn’t too late, a little past nine. There was an unopened pizza box from the delivery guy sitting on the kitchen counter that Stiles lifted, seeing that the whole thing was cheese. 

“You could have gotten half of what you wanted,” Stiles said, frowning down at the pizza. His dad hadn’t known that Stiles had been there and had jumped at the sound of his voice. 

“Oh, shit, you scared me. Don’t worry about it, I like cheese just fine. You might want to heat it up first.”

“How many do you want me to heat up for you?” Stiles asked. 

“Why don’t you put the whole thing in the oven for a few minutes, at say... 300 degrees.” 

“Alright,” Stiles said as he ambled around the kitchen. He waited for the oven to preheat, then put the pizza on a flat cookie sheet before he put it in the oven to reheat. He got himself a glass down, put ice in it, then found a can of Coke to pour in it. He stood there with one hand on the can and the other on the glass, staring at nothing. Dazed, he looked up to find his father looking at him worriedly with plates in his hand and the pizza on the counter beside him. Stiles had lost time, it seemed, because he had just put the pizza in the oven. 

“Dad,” Stiles said, his voice cracking. “Something is wrong with me.” 

“You’re fine,” he said, but Stiles didn’t believe him. They piled their plates with pizza, then sat at the table. Stiles grabbed the parmesan cheese out of the fridge to put on top of his pizza, then finally sat down to eat. “So about tomorrow-”

“What about tomorrow?” Stiles asked, mid-bite. 

“It’s Thanksgiving,” the Sheriff said patiently. “And I didn’t know if you wanted to do the full meal or not.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, nodding his head before taking a sip of his Coke. “I do. I like Thanksgiving.” The Sheriff stared at him for a moment and Stiles hunched over, worried. “Right? I like Thanksgiving...”

“You used to make me order in from somewhere,” his dad said as he looked down at his food. “You didn’t like gravy, or turkey, and you thought green bean casserole looked like puke.” Stiles laughed, unable to stop from smiling. 

“Puke? Really, Dad?” His dad shrugged. “I wonder why I’m different,” Stiles said, sobering up. “I mean, shouldn’t I like the same stuff I did before?” 

“I don’t know, son.”

“Did you even buy stuff for a big dinner?” Stiles asked, knowing that the fridge wasn’t full and the pantry was sparse. 

“No, but I can if you want.”

“Nah,” Stiles said with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it. What if we make a big breakfast instead with biscuits and eggs and all the bacon -- turkey bacon for you.” 

“Is that what you want? A big breakfast?”

“With pancakes,” Stiles said as he finished his pizza. “I can make the pancakes.”

After dinner, they found a movie to watch, then called it a night. Stiles couldn’t stop thinking about everything as he lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. He thought about Ben, about his supposed rocky relationship with Wet Dream, about being an emissary, and about his friends’ deaths. Which lead to him thinking about werewolves. Stiles got out of bed and pulled out his computer. He needed to research. 

At dawn, Stiles crawled into bed. He spent the entire night looking up werewolf folklore and weeding out the obvious bullshit. By the time his dad came in to wake him up, Stiles had just barely fallen asleep. He jolted awake as his father put a hand on his arm, shaking him slightly. 

“Hey,” he whispered as he sat on the edge of Stiles’ bed. “What were you up to last night?” He asked as he looked around Stiles’ room. Stiles had printed out everything he thought was useful, but thought that scattering everything around the floor wasn’t going to be helpful so he began tacking things to the wall. Stiles looked around, then groaned. 

“I wanted to know about werewolves,” he mumbled as he rubbed his eyes. “I just fell asleep, I think.” 

“Well, I got called into the station a bit ago. Can we do breakfast for dinner?” He asked. Stiles nodded sleepily, closing his eyes as his dad kissed his forehead. He nodded off easily after that. 

Rolling out of bed around two, Stiles poured himself a bowl of cereal then decided to watch TV. He tried not to think about the fact that he hadn’t dreamed any memories and hadn’t had any visions while awake either. After he was done eating, he went back into his room and stared at the wall of information with his arms crossed. He had different sections about werewolves and wolves in general. About pack dynamics, wolfsbane, and different countries’ folklores. At some point, his dad arrived back home. Stiles didn’t stop, though, he couldn’t. He needed to find out more on his own if his own brain was withholding information from him. Emissary was another word Stiles looked up, but it had been a dead end. It was too broad of a term to find out anything without talking with Deaton further. His dad left him alone but stopped by and stood by the door a few times to check on him. 

He caught himself staring at a picture of an alpha, a werewolf with red eyes, when the doorbell rang. Stiles waited, listened, to see if his dad would answer; but after a few seconds, Stiles made his way to the front door. His dad was asleep on the recliner, snoring lightly as he passed by. As Stiles reached for the door, he realized that he was still in his pajamas, shirtless. It was a bit late, now, to run back to his room to get a shirt. When he opened the door, he almost slammed it back shut again because before now, his hallucinations hadn’t been so real.

Before him stood Wet Dream, real as could be. Stiles turned to look back at his sleeping dad, then at the open door. This wasn’t a memory, this was happening now. His body wasn’t moving without his knowledge, and he had full control of his faculties. Stiles bit his lip. 

“Derek,” he said, without realizing he knew their name. It had been hidden from him this entire time, but as soon as he uttered it something within him snapped. “Derek.” Derek looked pained, he looked distraught, but most of all he looked hopeful. 

“Stiles-” Derek stopped at the sound of the Sheriff bolting up out of his chair, wide-eyed. 

“What,” the Sheriff said as he joined Stiles at the door. “What are you doing here?” Stiles’s chest heaved as he breathed in sharply in quick bursts. Derek was here, standing in front of him. 

“You said you couldn’t tell him alone,” Derek said, policing his facial expression. He looked stiff and unattached, but Stiles knew, he knew that they had been something. The Sheriff stepped between them, blocking Stiles from Derek. Stiles thought, at first, that he was going to shut the door on Derek’s face, but then the Sheriff made way for Derek to walk in. 

“Thank you,” his dad said, relieved. “I wasn’t expecting you, I couldn’t... he doesn’t know-”

“I know what I know,” Stiles spoke up. “Derek,” he said, making eye contact with him for only a second. “He’s...” Stiles licked his lips as he tried to form the words. 

“Stiles, go get dressed and we will talk about it, about everything,” the Sheriff said, urging Stiles to his room. Stiles looked to Derek again, his stomach clenching. He didn’t want to leave them in case this was some weird time-warp dream. 

“We’ll be right here,” Derek added. Only then did Stiles turn to go. He looked over his shoulder as he went, just in time to see his dad pat Derek on the shoulder as they walked into the living room. Once in his room, Stiles scrambled to find clothes. He practically kicked off his pajama bottoms and pulled on a clean pair of briefs. The red hoodie caught his eye after he pulled on a pair of pants, then a t-shirt. Derek and his father were whispering to each other as he walked out with his hands shoved in the hoodie’s pockets, and they stopped talking as soon as they spotted him. He hovered for a moment before sitting down on the couch next to Derek while his father sat leaning forward in his recliner with his elbows resting on his knees. 

“Okay,” Stiles said, looking back and forth between them. “Spill.”

“What do you remember about what happened?” Derek asked, his voice almost too patient. He wasn’t really looking at Stiles, which bothered him. “About how you lost your memory.”

“Nothing,” Stiles admitted. “I haven’t seen- I don’t know any of that yet. But I am tired of waiting,” he said, manic with his eyes wide. “I just want to know. All I have are clips and it is driving me-” he stopped. He didn’t want to say he was going crazy. Surprisingly, Derek rested his hand on Stiles’ knee, his thumb caressing him. Stiles looked down with his jaw dropped. As if realizing what he was doing, Derek pulled away. Stiles bit his lip. 

“Tell Derek what you know, all of it,” the Sheriff said. “Then he can fill in the gaps.” 

“I have my notebook,” Stiles offered. 

“I’d like to read it,” Derek said, looking to the Sheriff who in turn nodded at Stiles. Stiles got up to get the notebook. When he returned, his father was in the kitchen. Stiles handed the book over to Derek as he sat down, this time a little closer. If Derek noticed, he didn’t say anything as he opened the notebook and began reading. Stiles watched him, he couldn’t help himself. He wished suddenly that all his memories could just return to him so he would know where they were. 

Stiles’ eyes widened when he remembered the wet dream, about how detailed he had been. His heartbeat skyrocketed. Derek looked up at him, concerned. 

“Are you okay?” He asked. Stiles began to nod his head but then decided to shake it instead. He looked like a fool, he thought. “Stiles, it’s okay.” 

“Are we dating?” Stiles blurted. He heard his father drop something in the kitchen and curse under his breath. Derek was looking at him now, really looking and Stiles felt vulnerable. His facial expressions were masked, and Stiles couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He squirmed in his seat as he waited for Derek to speak. 

“We were,” Derek said, finally breaking eye contact. Stiles felt the urge to lean forward and kiss him, but Derek’s gaze returned to him, stopping him. “Who is Ben?” Guilt cascaded over Stiles. 

“He... he was my boyfriend,” Stiles told him. “I didn’t know-” He was hyperventilating, his hands shaking. He didn’t know, if he had then he wouldn’t have been with Ben.

“Stiles,” Derek said, reaching out for him, his hand covering both of Stiles’. “It’s okay, I wanted you to move on. I knew you wouldn’t know me. I didn’t expect you to not find someone.” Stiles felt his emotions bubbling up, knowing now how much Derek had meant to him, how much he means to him now. His vision blurred as he nodded his head. “I’m happy for you.” Stiles sniffed, his head shaking. 

“We broke up,” Stiles said as he cleared his throat. “He wanted casual, you know, with me flipping out and all. We aren’t together anymore.” Derek’s hand on Stiles tightened and then both of them moved at the same time, wrapping their arms around each other. Stiles buried his head against Derek’s shoulder, breathing him in as Derek’s hands slowly moved in circles around his back. “I wish I remembered more of you.”

“You will,” Derek whispered, his mouth close to Stiles’ ear. “I know you will.” When they pulled back from each other, the Sheriff was standing nearby holding two glasses of water. Stiles blushed. 

“It wasn’t a secret, was it?” Stiles asked, unsure. Derek and the Sheriff exchanged glances. 

“Not entirely,” his dad said. Stiles waited for more. “I found out soon after you told me about werewolves. He had left town, without telling you, and you caved and told me.”

“So we did date in secret?” Stiles asked, looking at Derek for answers. 

“It wasn’t really... dating,” Derek said as he shifted in his seat. The Sheriff was silent and Stiles could swear that his entire face and neck were red. “We never said what we were.”

“This is a lot,” Stiles said as he put his head in his hands. “But how did this happen? I mean my memory?” 

“The kitsune,” Derek said, his voice drenched with disdain. “A trickster. She knew you were important to not only Scott’s pack. She targeted you because of how cunning you were, because of your... abilities.” 

“What abilities?” Stiles asked. 

“Deaton was helping you tap into your inner power, what emissaries use. If fully trained, you could be a powerful person, Stiles,” Derek said reverently. “You could wield mountain ash without more than simple instructions.” Stiles remembered the memory. 

“I remember us fighting,” Stiles said. “I said you weren’t in Scott’s pack-”

“I’m not,” Derek said. “And you were right to be angry with me.” 

“It sounds so dumb now, though.”

“That’s because you have been through a lot, Stiles. We all have.”

“Tell me, then,” Stiles begged. “I need to know.” 

“She tricked you into thinking you could defeat her on your own, luring you out by thinking Scott needed your help.” Dread washed over Stiles. No memories about it came flooding back to him, but the way Derek talked made him feel like he knew what was going to be said next. “Scott was the one that found you passed out in the woods. You were basically hypothermic, and when you came to-” Derek stopped talking. He looked to the Sheriff for help. 

“In the hospital, Derek was with you when you woke up. You didn’t know him. You screamed until Melissa came in and gave you something to calm down. We knew immediately that something was wrong. We knew when Scott came in, looking older, that you had lost time.” 

“I don’t remember any of this,” Stiles murmured. “All I remember was moving here.” The Sheriff and Derek exchanged looks once more before Derek took his turn talking. 

“The reason you moved is because Deaton told us that the chances of you ever remembering us was slim. Scott, your dad, and I decided that it would be best for you if you started over.” Stiles clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to cry. He had a life, and it was ripped from him. “We didn’t want you in harm’s way anymore, and with no memory of werewolves or of me, there was nothing tying you to Beacon Hills.” 

“We could have stayed,” Stiles said to them both. “I’m remembering now, so Deaton was wrong. I could have been surrounded by my friends.”

“It wasn’t safe-”

“My entire life right now is a lie, Dad!” Stiles shouted. “Dartmouth, Ben, this house. This isn’t me, this isn’t you.”

“It is you, Stiles,” the Sheriff said. “Everything about you is real. Just because you like different foods now doesn’t mean that your life is a lie. You didn’t remember, and we gave you a life here.” 

“By leaving everything I loved behind.” 

“You almost died,” Derek said, his voice sharp and biting. “We made what we thought was the best decision.” 

“Well, it was the fucking wrong one, I wouldn’t have wanted to leave you.” Stiles got up and walked right into his room, slamming the door shut behind him. 

After everything he saw, he remembered, he couldn’t believe that they would think he would be okay with leaving them all behind. Stiles locked his bedroom door, then began pacing around his room. With his jaw clenched, he practically stomped his feet as he walked. He looked at the wall of research he put up, his eyes moving over the print outs until he saw a flash of another wall, full of articles and string linking different pieces of information together. He blinked, and his view was back to his room now. Stiles shook his head, knowing it was a memory. Knowing that he had done the same exact thing before calmed him down slightly, but not by much. 

There was a knock at his door, but Stiles ignored it. Instead, he reached out and began ripping down his research. He heard his name being called, which only made him tear up his work even faster. Screaming out his frustration, Stiles drowned out the increasing knocking and shouting for him to open the door. When he was finished and his papers littered the floor around him, Stiles looked down at his shaking hands. He closed his eyes, and counted to ten. 

It was night, and Scott was sitting next to Stiles on a bench. They were surrounded by people, by their teammates but both of them were solemn. Stiles felt on the verge of a panic attack, his chest so tight he could barely breath. 

_“It’s going to be bad, isn’t it?”_ Stiles said, his voice low so everyone around him wouldn’t hear. _“I mean like, people screaming, running for their lives, blood, killing, maiming kind of bad?”_

 _“Looks like it,”_ Scott said, not meeting his eyes. 

_“Scott, the other night seeing my dad get hit over the head by Matt, you know, while I’m just lying there and I can’t even move, it’s just- I want to help, you know, but I can’t do the things you can do. I can’t-”_

_“It’s okay,”_ Scott said reassuringly. 

_“We’re losing, dude.”_

Stiles was on the floor with crumpled paper clenched in his hands. His dad had gotten hurt because of them, and he wasn’t like Scott and Derek. He couldn’t protect his dad from anything. Stiles breathed in sharply, closing his eyes again because he knew another memory was about to resurface. 

Scott stood in front of him, practically in tears and drenched in gasoline. Stiles, with his hands reaching out, for the lit flare in Scott’s hand. 

_“It all started that night, the night I got bitten. Remember the way it was before that? You and me?”_ Scott’s voice was manic, desperate and ready to give up. _“ We were nothing. We weren't popular. We weren't good at lacrosse. We weren't important. We were no one. Maybe I should just be no one again. No one at all.”_ Stiles swallowed down his own feelings of inadequacy, about the fact that he was still no one, was still just as unpopular. But this wasn’t about him, this was about his best friend about to commit suicide in front of him. 

_“Scott, just listen to me. You're not no one. Scott, you're my best friend, okay, and I need you.”_ Stiles walked forward, stepping into the puddle of gasoline with Scott. _“Scott, you're my brother. Alright, so if we're gonna do this, then I think you're just gonna have to take me with you then.”_

Stiles’ hands were wet, he realized. He had been crying. He blinked back tears as he thought about Scott. They went through so much, and Stiles wasn’t there anymore, he left him to deal with everything on his own. The knocking stopped, and there were no more pleas for Stiles to open his bedroom door. Feeling drained, Stiles got to his feet. He felt numb, completely incapable of giving any more of himself away to his memories. Unlocking the door, Stiles opened it to find Derek sitting against the wall opposite of his door, waiting for him. Derek stood up immediately upon looking at Stiles. 

“Are you okay? I heard-”

“I’m fine,” Stiles snapped. “Do you have Scott’s number? I want to talk to him.” Derek stood there blankly for a moment, then nodded as he dug his phone out of his pocket, handing it over. Stiles took it, then walked back into his room, shutting the door behind him, effectively leaving Derek in the hallway. It was a shitty thing to do, but he didn’t care. He needed to talk to his best friend. 

Stiles’ breath caught in his throat when he looked at Derek’s lockscreen. He didn’t have a password, so all he had to do was swipe, but it was the picture that made him freeze. It was him. His face, smiling and carefree, along with Derek’s. Derek was kissing his forehead, his eyes closed. Stiles’ heart clenched, his breathing shortened as he looked down at the phone. Finally, his finger swiped the lockscreen away. The background picture of the phone had the same effect on Stiles despite the fact that he wasn’t in the picture. It was Cora, Derek’s sister. She was smiling, standing in front of the Las Vegas sign. Derek left Beacon Hills for a reason, and that reason was his sister. Stiles knew, despite not having those memories hit him like a ton of bricks. He didn’t need them to know this. 

Snapping out of it, Stiles scrolled through Derek’s contacts until he came upon Scott’s number. He dialed it as he sat down on his bed, waiting for him to answer. 

“How is he?” Scott said as he answered the phone. He sounded worried. Stiles couldn’t speak at first, knowing that Scott thought he was Derek. 

“Hey, Scott. It’s me,” Stiles said as he wet his lips. There was silence as Scott had time to realize that he was on the phone with Stiles instead of Derek. 

“Stiles,” Scott said, his voice catching in his throat. “Uh, how’s it going man?”

“Shitty,” Stiles admitted as he lay down on his bed, curling up. He knew that Derek could hear every word with his werewolf hearing, so there was no point in whispering. “I wish you were here.”

“Me too, dude.” 

“I just- I just want this to be over. I’m remembering shit in chunks and I can’t... I don’t know.”

“I wish I could help,” Scott said genuinely. “I can’t imagine what it must be like, not knowing but knowing at the same time.”

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked, worried about his best friend. Scott laughed, which made Stiles smile. 

“You’re the one I’m worried about.” 

“Why did you choose it?” Stiles asked. “Why did you send me away?”

“Oh, shit dude. You gotta understand that we didn’t want to. But, like, didn’t they explain what happened?”

“Yeah, but I want to know why... because you knew how much I would hate it, right? You knew-”

“I did, yeah,” Scott admitted. “But we were told you’d never remember. You weren’t supposed to ever remember. We thought, that you know, starting off away from Beacon Hills would be best. So you wouldn’t get roped up in it all over again because knowing you, you would.”

“But I remember,” Stiles pointed out. “I’m not going to just... step away from this.” 

“Yeah, you are,” Scott said, his voice firm. “You are already out, Stiles. You don’t need to ruin your life at Dartmouth by getting back into this.”

“I can’t just... ignore it. I’m an emissary-”

“You _were_ an emissary. You aren’t now.” Stiles bristled, furious. 

“I am one,” Stiles said desperately. “I’m yours.” Scott didn’t answer, which made Stiles even angrier. “Right?” 

“Deaton is,” Scott whispered. 

“But he is neutral!” Stiles shouted as he sat up. He knew it, deep down, without the memory to accompany it. “He doesn’t choose sides-”

“He did choose sides. We didn’t think you were coming back, Stiles.” 

“So if I came back you wouldn’t want me.” It hurt to say it, but Stiles knew it was true. 

“I want my best friend back,” Scott told him. “But I want you to stay out of werewolf business.” 

“I’m pack, though,” Stiles rushed out. “I’m part of your pack.” Scott’s silence was all the answer he needed. His door opened, then, as if on cue. Derek appeared, like he knew Stiles needed him there. Stiles nodded his head, letting Derek know that he was allowed in. Stiles’ cheeks were wet once more and he didn’t care if Derek saw him like that. He didn’t even wipe them away. “How am I supposed to be your best friend but not be in your pack?” Stiles asked. 

“We’ll figure it out, dude. But this isn’t just... it isn’t black and white like that, alright? You gotta think of Derek. Is he there?” Stiles looked at Derek who was still hovering by the door. 

“Yeah.”

“Can I talk to him?” Scott asked. Stiles stuck the phone out for Derek to take, knowing that Derek heard Scott’s request. Derek walked forward, taking the phone from Stiles, sitting on the edge of the bed. Stiles looked down at his hands as they lay in his lap. 

“What’s up?” Derek asked. Stiles wasn’t at all surprised when he felt Derek’s hand over his own. He linked his fingers with Derek’s easily, welcoming the touch. Stiles’ head pounded as he thought about the loss of his pack status, even though he had been without it since losing his memory. But knowing about the loss made it feel even worse. “Doesn’t remember, Scott,” Derek said with an irritated sigh that was all too familiar, but Derek hadn’t used it on him in quite some time. “I’m here, though. I’ll talk to him. Yeah, bye.” 

Derek tossed his phone aside, but remained quiet for some time as the two of them stared down at their intertwined fingers. Stiles tugged lightly, grabbing Derek’s attention. 

“Talk to me about what?” Stiles asked, his voice barely audible. 

“About why you aren’t in Scott’s pack.” Stiles’ heart thudded in his chest, heavy and erratic. He braced himself for the blow. “It isn’t that he doesn’t want you in his pack, Stiles. He didn’t want to let you go. He loves you, he is your brother-”

“Then why?” Stiles asked. “I don’t understand why he would-”

“You were targeted for a reason, Stiles. You were considered a threat to Kira, the kitsune who stole your memory. She took that from you to eliminate your threat. If Scott still considered you pack, she would go after you even here. We couldn’t let that happen to you.” 

“How am I that big of a threat? I’m nothing-”

“You are everything,” Derek said as he squeezed his hand. “You got so close to defeating her Stiles, closer than any of us, and you did it without our help. You are dangerous, and she knew it. She took everything from you and stripped you bare. She took your knowledge. She won, Stiles.”

“What?” Stiles’ eyes widened. 

“She got what she wanted. But Scott and Deaton are on her tail, now. We think that whatever she did to you is weakening, and they think that if they defeat her that-”

“They’re going to kill her?” Stiles asked. Derek nodded his head. “Okay.”

“But do you understand why Scott had to-”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I get it. I am a liability.” 

“No,” Derek snapped. “You are important. You had to be protected.”

“So sending me off to New England and making my father move his life and planning on leaving me in the dark for the rest of my life was the good idea that you all thought would be okay?” 

“I see why you are angry,” Derek said. “But you have to realize how hard of a decision it was for us. Scott didn’t want to let you go, your father wanted you safe and he wanted you to have a life, and I did, too. I knew you wouldn’t have that if you stayed. She would have killed you otherwise.” 

“I have no pack,” Stiles mumbled. 

“Yeah, you do,” Derek said pulling stiles close. “You have me.” Stiles buried his head against Derek’s neck, letting himself be pulled into Derek’s lap. Stiles sat there in silence, letting it sink in. 

“Your eyes are blue,” Stiles whispered. “You’re a beta.”

“I am,” Derek said, his arms tight around Stiles. “But I’m not alone. I have Cora, I have you.” Stiles shut his eyes, paying attention to the beat of Derek’s heart against his chest. 

“What now?” Stiles asked. “What am I supposed to do with my life?” 

“Go to school,” Derek said as if it would be easy. “Get your degree in the Classics.”

“What about Scott? What about you?” Stiles asked as he backed up enough to look Derek in the eyes. 

“He’s kept his distance because of your memories, you can still be close without being in his pack.”

“That just sounds wrong,” Stiles said, unable to take his eyes off of Derek’s mouth. He wanted to kiss him, wanted to feel his lips against Derek’s once more, to taste him. 

“As for me, I don’t- I don’t plan on going anywhere.” Stiles smiled at Derek’s admission. “Unless you want to start over.”

“I already tried that,” Stiles said. “It didn’t work out so well for me.” Derek smiled, and Stiles melted. “I’m still mad at you.” 

“I know,” Derek said as he leaned forward, capturing his lips with Stiles’. Stiles’ mouth opened readily, wanting more of Derek, all of him. The kiss started slowly, but quickly became more hurried and desperate as their hands roamed over their bodies. Stiles ended the kiss with his hands cupping Derek’s cheeks. 

“I am going to school,” Stiles decided. “But I am also going to be an emissary.” He didn’t wait for an answer from Derek before he continued. “I am not going to stand by the sidelines, I am in this. I was absent for awhile, but that doesn’t mean I will sit idly by while my friends are knee deep in supernatural shit.” 

“Okay,” Derek said, his hands smooth against Stiles’ back. 

“I wonder if you can Skype apprenticeships with Deaton,” Stiles mused. 

“You’d have to ask,” Derek mumbled as he leaned in for another kiss. Stiles let him, but it didn’t last long before he pulled back once more. 

“When the kitsune is dealt with, I want to talk to Scott about this pack business. I want us in his pack.” 

“Us?” Derek asked. Stiles nodded, scared for a moment that Derek would be against it. “We can talk with him, see what he thinks. But I think he’d like that.” There was a knock at the door, which was wide open already, the Sheriff standing there with one eyebrow arched. Stiles looked himself, practically draped across Derek. He didn’t back way, though. 

“How are things going in here?” His dad asked innocently. 

“I’m going to Dartmouth,” Stiles said. 

“I know you are,” his dad pointed out. 

“No, I mean, I am going to continue to. But I am going to be an emissary, too.” 

“Ah,” his dad said, looking grim. “I was afraid of that.” 

“After I remember everything,” Stiles added. “And figure more out. But I can’t just go on with my life knowing that there was more, is more, to my life than studying old books.” He looked to Derek, his fingers carding through Derek’s hair. Stiles’ life was nowhere near perfect, and not at all put together, but he would be okay. He had his father, Scott, and Derek. He would remember, and that was what mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to bk, l, b, and m for the beta work.
> 
> date: please do not REPOST this fic anywhere else without my consent. Please do not put it on GoodReads that is a site for PUBLISHED works, not fic.


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